The auditorium is too bright for how exhausted I feel. The smell of stage paint and dust should be comforting by now, but today it wraps around my throat like a reminder I cannot escape.
People chatter, adjust props, rehearse lines under their breath.
And then I see her.
Lena stands near the stage steps, gripping her script even though she knows it better than anyone. She looks smaller. Tired. Like this whole mess carved something out of her.
Her breath catches when she spots me. Her fingers tighten around the pages. She takes a hesitant step forward.
"Ash… can we talk?"
My body moves before my brain does. I walk past her. Not fast. Not rude. Just controlled enough to show I am not ready.
She follows a few steps anyway.
"Ash, please. I did not mean to believe what Samuel said about you and Ms Clarke. Or Alice. I am sorry…"
The apology hits something bruised inside me, but turning around feels impossible.
I cut her off by picking up a prop sword I don't need yet.
"Rehearsal's starting."
My voice sounds too calm for someone whose chest is twisting.
Clarke claps her hands. "Places, everyone."
Relief or punishment, I cannot tell.
Lena steps back and wipes her eyes quickly like she is adjusting her contact lens. No one else notices. I always do. I hate that I still care this much.
I force myself into Romeo's posture. Straight back. Steady breath. Pretend my heart is not twisting.
Clarke pauses and looks at me. "Ash. You are Romeo. Not a man who spent the entire night on Google spiraling into oblivion."
Some people laugh. I do not.
Her voice softens. "Look at me."
I do.
"Use whatever you are feeling. Do not run from it."
I nod. For the first time since arriving, I finally look at Lena. Just a moment. She looks down quickly, cheeks flushed with guilt.
"Juliet, move closer," Clarke says.
Lena steps toward me. Close enough for me to smell lavender in her hair. Close enough to feel her slight shaking.
Our eyes lock because Clarke commands it. Her voice trembles. "I am really sorry," she whispers so quietly that only I hear it.
A thousand replies burn on my tongue. I say none.
Instead I lift Romeo's hand to her cheek, as the scene demands. The moment my skin touches hers, everything inside me threatens to crack open: the lies, the rumors, the doubt, the stupid stubborn love I wish I could kill.
But the lights stay bright. Clarke keeps directing. And Lena keeps looking at me like she hopes forgiveness still exists somewhere inside me.
I look away first.
I focus on the lines. On the role.
On anything but the girl still holding pieces of me she doesn't know how to carry.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
By the time evening arrives, my body feels like it's been wrung out and hung up to dry.
But the second I step backstage, under those buzzing theater lights, something in me clicks back into place.
For two hours I get to be someone else.
When the audience quiets and my cue arrives, I stop being Ash Bennett. I stop being the boy accused of things he did not do, the boy who walked into a stranger's house and got looked at like a ghost, the boy terrified of every new truth peeling back another layer he cannot handle.
I become Romeo. A boy in love who believes the world is gentle.
The balcony scene flows out of me like I learned it in another life. When Juliet reaches down to touch my face, the room seems to glow.
For one suspended breath, I forget everything.
When the final applause erupts, the sound hits me like warmth breaking through winter. I bow. I smile. The cast clings to each other, laughing, breathless, sweaty.
For the first time in so long, something inside me feels close to whole.
Clarke congratulated me briefly. "You did beautifully, Ash. You held the entire auditorium."
I swallow the lump in my throat.
"Thank you."
Outside the wings, people swarm me.
A teacher squeezes my shoulder.
"You should seriously consider auditions for the college troupe next semester."
A group of classmates envelop me in a messy hug, shouting over one another.
"Bro, you killed it!"
"That monologue, I got goosebumps!"
"You should've seen the old ladies in row three crying!"
And then Alice appears.
She bursts through the crowd, panting like she sprinted from the bus stop, holding a bouquet that looks like it lost a fight with gravity and humidity at the same time.
"I got you flowers," she says, panting. "Pretend they're not dying."
I laugh, really laugh.
"Thank you."
She beams at me, proud in that ferocious, Alice way, and shoves the bouquet into my hands like she's awarding me bravery medals.
My phone vibrates.
A text from Josh: Saw the clips Alice sent. You didn't embarrass the family name. Congrats, idiot.
I shake my head, but my chest warms.
I text back: Thanks. I'll cry later.
For a moment it felt like maybe I survived the storm.
Then I see him.
Samuel.
Standing alone near the far wall. Not clapping. Not smiling. Not reacting.
Just watching.
His face is not angry. It is calculating, like he is deciding where to make the next cut.
The cold that floods me is instant.
The bouquet feels heavier. The applause fades. The room tilts slightly, like the world is slipping out of place.
Samuel did not come to see the play.
He came for me.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
The curtain is still trembling when I walk toward him. My pulse is loud, my hands dusty with stage makeup, but all I feel is cold.
"Tell me why you are doing this."
He does not respond.
I step closer. "Did you hear me? Tell me why."
Still nothing.
Frustration claws up my chest. "If this is about Lena, I do not get it. You are with her. She chose you. Why do you still come after me?"
His jaw tightens. A small reaction, but it is something.
"This is not jealousy," I say. "You do not look at me like a rival. You look at me like you already hate me. Like you have hated me for a long time."
His eyes narrow, a subtle crack forming.
I lower my voice. "Stop pretending and just tell me what your damn problem is!."
A part of me wants to run. Another part wants to hear the truth even if it destroys me.
My heart beats painfully. "Is this about my father? Mark Bennett?"
For the first time, his composure slips. His shoulders tense. He looks at me fully.
A long, tight silence stretches between us.
Then he says, quietly, "Yes."
The world tilts.
I swallow. "What does my father have to do with you?"
Samuel exhales slowly, like he has been waiting years to release it.
"Our families never told us the truth."
He pauses. "They lied to us both."
My hands go cold. "What truth?"
His eyes sharpen with something more than anger. Something old and wounded.
"Mark Bennett is my father too."
The words slam into me. Everything freezes.
"No…" My voice cracks. "He would not… he…"
But the denial feels weak even in my own ears.
Samuel steps closer. "He left my mother before I was born. She waited. She believed in him. He never came back."
His voice turns hollow. "Then he started a new family. With a new son."
Me.
I shake my head, but the room is tilting and my thoughts are slipping like sand.
"You really did not know," Samuel says softly. For a moment he sounds almost human.
I cannot breathe.
Samuel straightens, the cold mask sliding back into place. "Now you understand."
Before I can speak or move, he turns and walks away.
I stay frozen, staring at the space he left behind, the truth spreading through me like cracking glass.